


Follows me into the Woods, Takes me Home

by soloproject



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shop, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-14
Updated: 2012-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-04 15:19:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soloproject/pseuds/soloproject
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barista AU, Phil is a coffee shop businessman living a simple life; Clint is an assistant city manager with an attitude. There is a Stony setup in there somewhere, which will be part 2 when I find time to write it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Follows me into the Woods, Takes me Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deadonarrival](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadonarrival/gifts).



> Many liberties have been taken, the Avengers do not belong to me, etc. It's also barely beta'd so mistakes are mine.

Phil Coulson was a simple man with simple needs: stable finances, good friends, trusted vendors, a great neighborhood and a perfect cup of coffee.

Coulson and Sons was a small bakery and coffee shop on the East side that had been there for a generation. When his parents ran it, it was more like a deli but since taking over Phil had refurbished it to be an artisan coffee space to cater to the young hipster and yuppie crowd. Business was pretty good.

Phil retained the original layout, replacing only furniture, adding art and refurbishing the dark wood surfaces of the place. The meat slicing machines had been replaced by vintage looking high end copper plated espresso machines. He had eventually bought out the Chinese take-out place next door and redid the kitchen for their use. It was a large investment. After years of law enforcement, one failed relationship and a work-related injury, Phil decided he would take over the place after his father retired. Old workmates liked the place too, because Phil kept it open unofficially sometimes and he always had beer in a cooler in the back. 

“Phil! Phil, I need a big one of the Fury and I need it now!” A tall black man said, bursting into the shop. Phil looked up from the registry. Nicolas Fury was a part-time professor and full time activist. They had been friends for years and had met because Nick spent a lot of time calling in leads to the police as a kind of hobby. He had lost his eye in Iraq or Afghanistan or one of those places and worked occasionally as a strategic consultant and game theorist for the military. He was one of those minds that constantly needed a lot of coffee.

One day, tired of listening to Nick rant against the evils of a soul-sucking corporation like Starbucks, Phil had pulled out a bag of beans he’d been saving for a special occasion, a Colombian bean with a deep, bold flavor profile and brewed Nick a double shot Americano. Nick took one sip and sighed, “That’s the shit, motherfucker.” And thus, the Fury was born.

The Fury was popular with the midnight oil burning crowd. Steve, who was an artist friend of Phil’s, made a label and a sign for the store “Warning: High Levels of Caffeine, Not for the Faint of Heart” replete with a menacing cartoon of Nick’s face, eye patch and all.

“What’s the occasion?” Phil asked, shooting an apology to the person who was next in line. He quickly made Nick’s coffee and handed it over, mentally adding it to the tab that he knew would never be paid. 

“Some motherfuckers want to buy out the block! We’re protestin’!” Phil winced as Nick slugged back half the drink. Sometimes he wondered if Nick’s injury had taken out some nerve endings as well. He always wore beanie and a leather coat even in the summer and he didn’t seem to sweat. 

“Wait, this block?” Phil asked, coming out from around the counter. “Maria, I’m going to go take a look with Nick.” He called to his assistant manager. 

There was a small group of distressed looking people standing around on the corner, eyeing the group across the street surveying the area. 

“What’s going on?” Phil asked Darcy, the perpetually bored looking grad student who worked part time at the music store next door.

“Nothing yet but looks like a takeover.” Darcy said. “It sucks. I don’t want to have to go anywhere new to get coffee and you make the best stuff.” She added, somewhat gloomily.

“Not going anywhere.” Phil assured her. A flashy looking car pulled up to the curb and parked somewhat haphazardly.

“Oh my god,” Darcy breathed. “Is that car really purple? That’s so heinous.” 

A man got out of the car and walked up to the group. He was well-built, good looking, roughly the same height as Phil and snarkily dressed in business clothes. He pulled off his  
sunglasses and grinned at the crowd.

“Hey everyone, small and medium business owners alike, my name is Clint Barton,” he shook a few hands. Phil hung back and watched him work the crowd. “There’s nothing to see here, we’re not currently looking into rebuilding anything, just some infrastructural improvement planning for city management.”

“That’s how it starts, Barton,” Nick said, poking a finger into Clint’s chest. “And I suppose you put the ‘man’ in management?”

“Actually,” Clint said, pushing his sunglasses back up his nose. “I put the ‘gem’ in ‘management’,” he said, actually pronouncing it with the emphasis on gem.

Phil had to bite his own grin back. “Listen, I’m here as city management PR to listen to all your questions and comments, complaints, wild reactions, etcetera—here is my card.” Clint started handing it out. “If there is a light busted, a sidewalk cracked or whatever, you call that number, I will hear you out or come see you personally. The next few weeks, I’m all yours.” Clint grinned and clapped his hands. “Cool? Cool? Cool.” His eyes met Phil’s for a second and a moment passed, electric, over the heads of everyone there. Phil looked away first.

The next few days were busy. With summer upon them, there were a lot of kids with free time, coming in for iced coffees and teas and homemade ice cream that Phil always put out every summer. There were a lot of frazzled dads needing some of The Fury and Phil always ordered extra whip and other fixings for blended concoctions of all kinds. He wasn’t above the fancy coffee drink—it was like chemistry to him. Plus he never liked to feature the same flavours and combinations all the time. Once there were a few featured inventions set up, they never made another appearance in the store for the season. This week, it was an icy coffee and banana blend with berry syrup and whipped cream and nuts, “The Phil B and J” and a green tea and blackberry ice blend that Darcy called the “GTB Cool-son” which was becoming popular. Why Phil allowed his friends to give his inventions rotten, pun-riddled names was beyond him but he had to admit, it was catchy.

Today, Steve was in the store, biting his lip and agonizing over some background studies he was creating for a video game. Steve Rogers was a captain in the army before he was honorably discharged and set about pursuing his first love of art. Steve was a textbook all-American of the Norman Rockwell ideal. He didn’t swear, he didn’t drink, he worked out and he only ever came to Coulson’s for any of the three dozen fancy teas and cheese danishes Phil had baked fresh every day. But he was a good man and he liked drawing labels and signs for Phil for sweet teas and cheese danishes. It was fair trade because at 6 feet 2 inches and 240 pounds, it was a lot of danishes which Natasha had to make. 

Natasha Romanova worked out of Phil’s converted kitchen part-time as his baker but to his knowledge, she was also a martial arts instructor, part-time model and god knows what else. Cool-headed and gorgeous, she was in the kitchen at 4 AM sharp, turning out the pastries, pies and cookies for the day, before heading off to teach Brazilian jujitsu or whatever at 10 am. Once in a while, she would take leave to fly to some on location photoshoot and Phil would order the goods from another supplier but people could always tell a Romanova puff pastry from anything else.

Maria Hill was Phil’s right hand and took care of the store front. Tough and efficient, they knew each other from growing up in the neighborhood where Maria was basically queen of the playground. They worked part-time and summers at Coulson’s and Maria had already been running the store by the time Phil took over. Together they had revitalized the place. Maria was invaluable and the one time Phil and her had conflicted was only when Phil tried to sign half the ownership to her. They compromised with Phil insisting he pay her more than he paid himself and by letting her make most of the business decisions. It meant Phil was stuck with the paperwork and the creative side, which was the coffee. 

The bell over the door rang as it opened and Clint Barton walked in, immediately commanding the room. He flashed an infectious smile to everyone and Phil’s own mouth quirked a little too. A frazzled looking man trailed after him, looking stressed, his tie askew and Clint propelled him to the counter. 

“Bruce needs some calming tea. As calming as possible, but not quite sleepy time,” Clint told Phil.

Bruce rolled his eyes. “I’m fine, Clint, I wasn’t angry. The other man was just…wrong.” He frowned when Maria brought him a steaming cup of green tea with a lemon slice in it and put it right into his hands. “That table is free over there.” She smiled and Bruce gave her a grateful wobble. 

“Oh damn, that’s good tea.” he said, shooting Maria a grateful look. He shuffled over to the table and sat, striking up a conversation with Steve.

Clint was scrutinizing the menu. “Cool-sons?” He asked Phil, laughter in his eyes.

“Just a dumb nickname for the ice blended stuff we play around with sometimes,” Phil replied, rolling his eyes a little.

“It’s cute.” Clint said. “Make one for me.”

“What kind?”

“Make one up. You look like a man who knows what his customers want.” Clint said, innocently.

The drink Phil handed to Clint was an old school vanilla egg cream with dark chocolate lightly marbling it. He’d tossed in a handful of mixed berries on top for a little cheek and drizzled it with a double-shot of espresso. 

“Fuck me, that’s so good.” Clint mumbled around his straw after sucking down a quarter of it. “You gotta put this on the menu. Call it the Barton because it’s so sexy.”

“That’s a onetime only drink, Barton. What do you want?” 

Clint opened one eye, his lips still around the straw. “It’s my lunch break. I wanted a coffee and a cheese Danish from the legendary Coulson and Sons.”

“Are you making the rounds with your accountant over there, maybe trying to talk people out of giving up their livelihoods?”

“First of all,” Clint said. “Bruce is a financial analyst and we’re not terrorizing the neighborhood, we’re just making sure the improvements are within budget.” He grinned and then to Phil’s horror, started scooping some of the concoction with his fingers. He popped a cherry into his mouth and winked at Phil. “Why are you suspicious? We’re just humble public servants.”

“Sure, and public servants drive cars like that and swagger in and out of places, demanding personal service?”

Clint grinned. “I won’t lie. I had a high paying job before I decided to give back. Occupy yadda yadda…and you made me the drink, which you didn’t have to do. Also, did you just say you liked my swagger?”

“He got you there,” Steve chimed in, his huge hands wrapped around Bruce’s head, giving him some kind of massage. Between the tea and the head massage, Bruce looked nearly catatonic.  
Phil’s face grew a little hot. “Look, my dad started this place and I’m a guy who likes plans. And if you think that I never thought up what to do in case there was a risk of losing this place, you’re wrong.”

Clint stared back at him a bit. “If you like plans, we should make some.” He said suddenly. “And then you can tell me of your other plans. I like plans. I’m more of a throw-them-to-the-wind kind of guy but, plans, I can dig ‘em.”

For a moment, things were quiet while everyone chewed on that. And then Steve had to go ruin everything with “Yeah, you should go show him your secret taqueria place.”

“Yeah, Phil, I can keep a secret,” Clint said, grinning hard enough to break his face.

 

“Dinner with the enemy?!” Nick practically spit-sprayed Phil with a combination of blueberry muffin and beer.

“It’s Steve’s fault,” Phil said, glaring across the table at Steve and slamming down his hand of cards. “I’m out.” 

“He likes you! It’s so obvious,” Steve said, studying his cards. Every second Friday, Steve, Nick, Phil, Maria, Natasha and occasionally Peter, who was in college and worked there part time, set up a poker game in the front room. It was a cheat night, so they ate all the leftover baked goods that didn’t sell and sometimes did vodka shots. It was a tradition for Coulson and Friends that the night end badly and whoever had the worst hangover had to run the counter in the morning when it was busiest for half a day. So far, Natasha and Steve had  
never had done it, which was so totally unfair.

“Corporate espionage!” Nick said, banging his fist on the table. “You have to find out if  
he’s looking to privatize with some company to save the city some money. Maybe some asshole is looking for re-election.”

“I think you are touched in the head. I’m not scared of him.” Phil scowled at the table.

“And yet, you’re showing him your secret taqueria place.” Natasha glared back. “There is a reason, Phil. Why it is a SECRET.” She slammed her winning hand down on the table.

“They make the best tacos and if some hipster like Clint knows, he’s going to tell everyone,” Maria muttered as the table shuffled their chips towards Natasha. 

“It’s Steven’s fault, blame Steve,” Phil threw his hand up in defeat. In truth, he knew, he could’ve said no, he could’ve turned up the sternness but Clint was looking at him so guilelessly that he found himself agreeing.

“You could’ve said no, Coulson.” Steve muttered. “Although I know I swore not to tell everyone about the secret taqueria place and I’m really sorry about that.”

“Who else did you tell, Rogers!?” Natasha snapped. Maria scowled and punched him in the arm. “Who else did you tell or I’m going to tell everyone about…your stash.”

“Whoa! You have a stash? I bet it’s some good stuff too, Rogers, didn’t your mother ever teach you that it’s good to share?” Nick said.

“No,” Natasha said, coolly. “Not that kind of stash. Just a bunch of memorabilia Steve collects of a certain high profiler he has a crush on.”

“Bucky! I took Bucky there when he was in town. And Peggy Carter but we’re old friends, so it’s totally okay.” Steve protested, face turning bright red. “And Logan, you know he can keep a secret.”

“That better be it.” Maria said, glaring at him. “You know the secrecy makes everything more delicious.”

 

“Get out of here.” Maria insisted, pushing Phil a little. “Go on your date with Barton.”

“It’s not a date.” Phil insisted. If it was, there would be more effort, more scrutinizing of outfits and checking for smells. Phil knew how it worked, he’d done it before. But he was dressed casually, as he was every day for work, probably smelling of a dreadful mix of food and beverage smells and there was zero effort involved. Hence, it wasn’t a date. Just one guy telling another guy his best kept secret.

“I think Barton thinks it’s a date.” Peter Parker said as he deftly packed coffee into the espresso machine. “I mean, check it out.”

Sure enough, the purple monstrosity smoothly parallel parked in front of the store and Clint came out of it, looking fit and perfect, if annoyingly preppy in cargo shorts and a button down. He whistled as he came into the store and beamed at Phil so much that Phil couldn’t help but smile back. Phil balled his apron and handed it to Maria.

“Hungry? Let’s go.”

“Are we driving?” Clint asked.

“Let’s walk, it’s not far.” 

“But if we walk, we can’t make out in the car later.” Clint said, frankly.

“That is so not going to happen, Barton,” Phil chuckled.

 

“These are the best tacos I have ever eaten in my life. And I have been to Mexico many times and eaten in a great many Mexican households whose matrons have insisted theirs was unlike any others.” Clint moaned around a mouthful of his sixth helping.

Phil ate his a little more primly. “Did you not eat all day in anticipation of this or something?” 

“I may have skipped second lunch.” Clint informed him, snarfing another taco in two bites. “I think we better order some more.”

“You might not have any more room for another secret.” Phil said, lightly.

“You have more secrets? I like you, Coulson.” Clint said, dusting crumbs off his hands. “Take me to this next secret.”

It wasn’t really a secret, not as secret as the taco place but the gelato at Santerelli’s was homemade with fresh ingredients and the place was rare rooftop spot overlooking the New York skyline.

“We should do this again.” Clint said as they took their ice cream and sat in one of the Central Park style bench set around the perimeter of the rooftop, facing outward.

“I don’t know about that.” Phil said, licking at his tiramisu gelato. “Kind of a conflict of interests, don’t you think?”

“I’m really not the enemy here,” Clint said, kicking at the floor. “It’s just work. I hate to see this neighborhood go just as much as you. It’s not a 100% reality that it won’t stay the same and it’s true that industrialists have their eyes set on the area. I won’t lie to you, its prime real estate but I grew up not far from here for a while, one of my foster homes…one of the better ones, anyway.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Phil looked up to see Clint looking at him.

“But I want to see it stay the same too. Its places like this that makes New York so great. Places like your hole in the wall.” Clint nudged Phil’s knee with his. “And your vast archive of secrets.” 

“All holes in walls, I don’t know what is so impressive about that.” Phil said, matter of factly.

“I think you’re pretty impressive. It’s pretty obvious you’re the pillar of the community here.”

“I’m just a guy who likes to make coffee, Barton.”

 

After that, Clint showed up to the coffee shop nearly every day, insisting on a new flavour of something or another. Phil managed to say no around 50% of the time but then Clint caught on that Phil was more likely to do it if he brought a customer with him, so he’d wound up meeting a Hank, a Janet, one Jarvis and Bobbi, the ex-wife.

“My best friend, too and a super tough broad,” Clint said, after extolling the virtues of Phil’s ability to make perfect cappuccino foam. Bobbi was one of those tall, patrician blondes with a can-do air but she had warm eyes and an easygoingness about her that was probably why Clint had fallen for her. 

“And why didn’t it work out?” Phil mustered asking, handing Clint a shortbread cookie half dipped in white chocolate. 

“Eventually I realized I kinda swung the other direction,” Clint said, giving Phil such a naughty, heated look that Phil had to cough and pound at his chest a little. “Also, she is a bitch,” he added, fondly.

“Get outta here, Barton.”

“Phil,” Clint ventured, while Phil went to get a drink of water. “Come over tonight, I’ll make you dinner.” 

“I’d like that,” Phil found himself saying.

 

Clint lived, as expected, in some ritzy area in downtown Manhattan but his building was surprisingly low-key. Clint opened the door in jeans and a Neutral Milk Hotel t-shirt with an apron over it, spattered liberally with tomato sauce.

“I didn’t know what you liked, so I made a lasagne.”

“Meat and cheese, works for me.” Phil said, stepping into the place. It was neat and the furnishings were nearly Spartan but the pieces seemed worn and loved. There were bookshelves packed with books and, to Phil’s amusement, the wires of the electronics were neatly bunched and secured with little twist ties, not like the snarled mess of his setup at home. 

“Just make yourself at home,” Clint said, dashing back to the kitchen.

“I’ll put this in the fridge. German chocolate cake,” Phil said, setting the bottle of red wine on the dining table, set with plates he recognized from Ikea. Clint was definitely a bachelor.

“That woman is a goddess,” Clint said, shoving his hands into rubber stove puppets. “Make way, it’s going to be hot.”

The food was good, the company better. Phil wondered when the last time was that he felt comfortable in this setting—it had definitely been a while. When he was on the force, the guys had known and hadn’t really given him shit for it but that was a time when work was all on his mind so he never did have a chance to concentrate on his relationships. There was one and it was going well but he and Ben were ultimately addicted to work and couldn’t bring themselves to promise more than that. 

Phil was feeling loose by the time the bottle of wine and the cake—the whole cake—was gone and he moved to gather up the dishes and take them to the sink. Clint came up behind him and tentatively wrapped his arms around Phil’s waist.

“You don’t have to do that,” Clint said. “You’re my guest.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Phil said, quietly and, taking a deep breath, he turned around in the circle of Clint’s arms.

“Can I kiss you, Phil? Because I’ve been wanting to do it for so long. I fucking wooed you, man,” Clint smiled softly at him. “I showed you off to my ex-wife.”

“I thought she was your best friend,” Phil said, reaching up to dig his fingers into Clint’s scalp.

“Sure, let’s call her that,” Clint said, leaning into to touch his mouth to Phil’s. 

It was dirty almost instantly. Phil opened his mouth and let Clint’s tongue in and they slid against each other for a while like that before Clint broke off, eyes bright, to nuzzle at Phil’s jaw and down his neck, worrying a spot that made Phil hang onto the edge of the counter. And then Clint dropped to his knees and put his face into Phil’s crotch and Phil shuddered a little in anticipation.

“Phil, hang in there, I need you to hang in there for me. I just want to do this for you.” Clint opened Phil’s pants and took out his cock, hard and red and slid it past his lips. The sight was almost too much for Phil and he had to take huge breaths and stare at the ceiling. Clint sucked him down and then squeezed Phil’s thighs with a surprisingly strong grip. “Hang in there, Phil.” Clint smiled at him wickedly and stood, stretching out a bit before leaning into to kiss him again.

“Come to the bedroom, I want you to fuck me,” Clint whispered into his mouth. 

Clint’s bedroom was neat like the rest of the house but the bed was straight out of a catalog for lustful sinners. It was bit high off the floor and the sheets on it were at least 1000 thread count. Clint looked sheepish. “This is where the magic happens.” 

But then he tipped Phil into it and straddled him fast, stripping off his shirt to reveal tight, lean muscle. Compared to him, Phil was maybe a little pudgy but hey, he was in the food service industry so who could blame him. Phil watched, frozen, as Clint climbed out of his jeans and set to work preparing himself, rocking over Phil’s thighs and sliding his fingers inside himself. 

“I imagined it like this with you inside me,” Clint said, smirking and Phil pushed him over and rolled on top, kissed him and helping work one finger inside Clint too, swallowing groans that came out of the other man. A quick trip to the side table for a condom and the lube and soon Phil was sliding into Clint slowly, trying to make it last while he pressed small kisses along Clint’s jaw.

“Oh god,” Phil groaned, once fully sheathed and then, “oh god,” he groaned in misery, coming almost instantly after one tiny shift of his hips. He dropped his forehead onto Clint’s shoulder. “Sorry.”

To his dismay, Clint giggled. He shot an apologetic look at Phil and then dissolved into laughter. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He said, while Phil slid out and rolled onto his back, covering his face with his hands. 

“Oh my god, stop laughing, I’m not a young man, anymore!” Phil said. Clint rolled and threw his hand over Phil’s waist, shoulders shaking with laughter.

“You should’ve seen your face. It was adorable.” Clint said, giggling even more.

“I’m leaving,” Phil said, flatly.

“You’re not,” Clint said, kissing his shoulder.

“Seriously I am, let me up,” Phil said, without any fight in his tone.

“Not until you help me with the dishes,” Clint said, grabbing Phil’s hand and dragging it down to his still hard dick.

 

“Hey,” Darcy said, coming into the coffee shop. “Can I get whatever’s on tap?” 

Phil went to fill a big mug, just as he knew she liked it. “Don’t you normally work at this hour?”

“Nah, the store’s closing, some real estate agency came and bought out the space.”

“Really?” Phil knew the proprietors of that store for years. 

“Yeah, a bunch of people are doing the same. Stark Realty,” Darcy said. “You got some part time work for me, Coulson?” She asked.

“Ask Maria later,” he told her.

“Cool.”

“Look at this!” Nick said, bursting through the door as he always did. He tossed a folded newspaper on the counter. STARK REALTY NEIGHBORHOOD TAKEOVER, the headline read. The picture was taken on the steps of city hall of Tony Stark at the press conference. 

“We’re not looking to take away the charm of the neighbourhood, just looking to bring more business into the boroughs and take out some of the heat from Manhattan. People should enjoy the diversity of New York beyond Central Park, Times Square or other Gossip Girl related shenanigans. Show them that the neighbourhoods are more than just a bunch of holes in the walls.” Tony Stark shared. According to City Hall, Stark has more than enough claim to the valuable real estate—his father, the late Industrialist Howard Stark developed the land in the Depression era and vastly improved the living standards of the place, bringing more jobs and less crime to the borough. Assistant City Manager Clinton Barton has told journalists that the risk analyses have been in motion for weeks and there are rumours that Stark Industries will soon move to offer compensation to business owners to free up space before auctioning to the highest corporate bidders.

Phil’s mouth pressed hard enough into a line. 

“Your boyfriend’s been helping,” Nick said.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious, but he’s not my boyfriend,” Phil said, just as Clint walked in.  
Nick glared at Clint. “You talk to him, Phil because I can’t even.” Nick said, striding out.  
“Oh boy, I was hoping you wouldn’t see that before I could explain,” Clint said, coming up to the counter.

“I am all ears,” Phil said, scrubbing the counter a little angrier than he intended.

“It’s not the whole borough—look, Phil, I admit, City Hall has been charged with letting Tony do his thing. We figured he’d run out of steam and then forget about it after a while—he has that reputation after all. We go through this with him every other year or so.”

“So you’re telling me that city management lets Stark loose on New York city boroughs every now and then like it’s his own personal playground? People live here! People work here and raise their kids here and—“

“—and meet people here, people they like and want to be with, etcetera.” Clint put his hands down very tentatively on top of Phil’s. If the counter wasn’t between them, Phil would have probably pulled him into a hug. 

“Look, you tell Tony the next time you see him, that there is a very annoyed pillar of the community who is going to come down very hard on him if he even tries.”

“I’ll try to warn him. But god, you’re sexy when you’re grumpy.” Clint said. 

Phil cleared his throat. “Your place or mine?”

\- END -


End file.
